


Never Enough

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: "Might As Well Fuck Before We Die", F/M, I legitimately have no idea what to tag this, One-Shot, Sexytimes, Slight Pain?, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-13
Updated: 2018-01-13
Packaged: 2019-03-04 05:26:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13357443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: There's never enough time to do what needs to be done. But maybe, just maybe, there's enough time to do half of what they want.





	Never Enough

**Author's Note:**

> I love this pairing and have so much planned for them. Perhaps a bit OOC, but oh, well. Here's some smut for you!
> 
> Also the title is totally from The Greatest Showman.

In war, particularly on the losing side, she has discovered, there is never enough time. 

There is never enough time to evacuate a base entirely, never enough time to grab everything. There is never enough time to plan an attack that will guarantee their win. There is never enough time to say goodbye, to say _I’m sorry,_ to say _I love you._

Hours. They have hours. It’s not enough. It never is enough.

And fifteen, maybe twenty minutes is impossible considering all she wants to do to the hot-blooded captain who currently has his lips attached to her shoulder through the slit in her dress, his nose pressed to her bare skin. 

She thought she had more restraint than this. She thought she had more control, but adrenaline mixed with arousal is a strong, heavy spice, and the fear thrumming in her chest isn’t helping in the slightest. The way his plush lips feel on hers might also be a contributing factor, but she won’t tell a soul in the galaxy about that little weakness she only just discovered less than five minutes ago. 

His quarters are dark. They shut down the power in the private quarters of the higher officers, everyone else on the bridge or at their stations. What power there was is now being redirected to the transports. Still, there are the emergency lights, the blue and red lights on the keypads that direct light and the door, the blinking yellow light of the fire system. The emergency light is a dull orange thing, casting the pilot in an almost sickly glow, highlighting the shadow of his strong jaw and the dark circles under his eyes from too much thinking and not enough sleeping. 

She wonders how her contours look in the light, the harsh dip of her collarbone and clavicles. Probably ghastly, if she’s honest, but if Dameron has an opinion, he doesn’t say it. Instead, she feels the heat of his hand sliding up her back to pull at her dress.

He kisses like he flies through the stars. Reckless. Rash. Exciting. Seemingly messy, but carefully calculated to make her knees weak and blood hot. A tongue against her own, against the roof of her mouth, against her lower lip. Fingers in her hair, her headpiece long abandoned on the floor of his quarters. 

She can recall some of what she said before, harsh words she should have never allowed to leave her lips. Calling him reckless, calling him foolish, calling him hot-blooded and idiotic in his dangerous schemes. He called her a traitor, keeping her plan from him. 

Words stopped falling from their lips shortly after, their mouths put to better uses. 

He pulls at the piece of soft, thin fabric around her neck, the rest of the dress needing to be pulled up and over her head. It bunches in his hands as he shoves it up, revealing pale, slender legs and pale brown boots. She wonders if she’ll even have time to step out of them. 

Without power going to the air regulation, she can feel the chill against her bare skin, the cold of space pressing through the window of his quarters. Her skin prickles, but Dameron’s hands are there to warm her within moments, her dress still rucked up around her waist as his palm finds the skin of her outer thigh. 

They don’t have enough time for soft, tender loving. They barely have time for whatever this is. But she will make a few more moments, she decides, to feel this man’s bare skin against hers. The pilot’s eyes widen as she pulls back and lifts her dress over her head, throwing it to the floor before she reaches for the bottom of his shirt. His jacket was pushed off of his shoulders by her hands moments ago, the dark fabric now in a crumpled heap on the floor. 

She can feel the cool durasteel of the wall against her back, can feel his lips upon her collarbone until she has to push the fabric up and over his head. He pulls back for a heartbeat before he latches onto her again, mouth finding its home along the curve of her neck, his arms wrapping around her. 

He’s a scoundrel, she thinks, much like someone else she once knew, someone else Leia loved dearly. And so she shouldn’t be surprised when he lifts her into his arms, but she still gasps in surprise, her legs wrapping around his waist for support. Her hands seek purchase on his bare shoulders, his skin hot compared to the chill of the room around them. He presses her against the wall again, his mouth finding the bare skin of her chest, just above the breast band she’s wearing. 

There have been other pilots before him. There have been other hands on her hips, there have been other mouths against hers – some with stubble to scrape her skin, some with softer, plusher lips. There have been other arms wrapped around her, and she has had her legs wrapped around flyboys like him, before.

But there’s something about Dameron, something about the way he lavishes her shoulder with kisses instead of scraping his teeth against her, instead of marking her. The way he holds her, his hand pressed to her hip, his leg underneath her to support her, the other clutching at her waist. There’s a softness to it, something almost like … worship. For all of his fire, she would have expected bruises and bite marks.

Not that she minds a bit of something more primal, but she has the inkling he feels it, too. 

If this is their last, then it had better be good. 

The dull hum of the emergency light isn’t enough to distract her from the sound of his lips leaving her skin, their breathing heavy as he reaches up and unclasps her breast band, the tight fabric falling away to join the damage already done. Immediately there are lips upon her breasts, the man’s mouth open and hot and wet. 

She wonders if he makes everyone who enters the circle of his arms, Maker, who even enters his radius.... She wonders if he makes everyone who enters his orbit feel like the only one he’s ever been with, the only one who’s ever mattered. 

She can’t reach his pants from here, can’t shuck them down like she wants, can’t feel him the way she wants to. He doesn’t take them off, instead shifting her so that she’s braced against the wall, one hand supporting her and the other sneaking between her legs. 

She has to hold her own, has to pull her weight, her legs wrapped around him and keeping her up as he looks down between them in the darkness. Surely he knows what he’s doing – he has that air about him, has that confidence that she finds so damn attractive. But he almost stumbles for a moment, his fingers tracing the edge of her underwear before he moves the thin fabric aside and strokes her folds clumsily. 

Perhaps it’s the dark. Perhaps it’s because of the fear thrumming in both of them, she thinks, keening up into him as he moves two fingers down her slit as though testing her, seeing how she’ll react. Her arms tighten around his neck, and she feels his lips against her jaw, against her cheek, against the corner of her mouth. He’s seeking her out, tracking her. 

In a perfect world, one where they have time and they’re not in the cold, powered-down quarters of an ex-commander-now-captain, she would take him to bed. She would let him seduce her, or maybe she would seduce him herself. She would be slow, and sultry, and indulge in this gorgeous man who is currently exploring her like his mission is to memorize her before the sand in the hourglass runs out. She feels hot, rough fingertips against her folds, thick but gentle, never pressing too hard or trying to force. 

She doesn’t respect him much, but she respects him for that, and for how he presses against her clit with a skilled touch, rubbing slowly, seeing her reaction before pressing harder and rubbing harder and earning a low moan in response. 

The man learns quickly, she’ll give him that. 

Her hips ache from being held up, her arms still tight around his neck, but the pain grounds her, reminds her this is happening. As if the pounding of her heart isn’t a reminder already. 

Her breath hitches as he slips one finger in, her back pressing against the cold durasteel behind her. She can feel something knock against her collarbones, something metal and hard but warm from the body it was against before. A necklace, of some sort, she thinks. 

She can’t see it in the dark, can’t be bothered to pull her lips from the man she’s currently kissing, his tongue sweeping against hers and tasting behind her teeth, sloppy and more than a little addictive. Her fingers dig into the taut muscles of his shoulders, and she feels his moan buzz against her lips, feels his hand tighten on her hip as he slips another finger in. She’s wet already, and she has some inkling of an idea that the man holding her is to blame. 

Oh, he’s attractive. She can see why he’s the face of the Resistance with his dashing good lucks, his dark stubble and tousled curls, that look in his eye. She’s always been one for the flyboys, too, but she never thought anything would come of this one. 

Maker, was she wrong. 

He stretches her so gently, fingers curling, pressing up against her walls as his calloused thumb finds the tender bud of her clit. She can feel his cock against her thigh, can feel the tightness of the fabric keeping it contained, and she suddenly has this fantasy of the man wearing his flight suit with nothing underneath. Oh, how easy it would be though, the sound of zippers and snaps and the sight of bare skin beneath it, dusted in dark curls. 

Selfish, she thinks. Selfish of her to have such fantasies when they have so little time left. 

He says nothing. Nothing about how hot and wet she is around him, like a foul-mouthed flyboy of her youth used to say, rambling on and on and making her blood boil with arousal. Nothing about her hair color compared to the strands between her legs, nothing about them not matching, like some crude captain once remarked. Nothing about how soft she is, how perfectly made, like one sweet general used to whisper years and years ago.

There’s no sense in wasting breath on pretty words, not when he manages to say it all in the way his hand spreads across the bare curve of her ass, in the way he slows the kiss but doesn’t slow his fingers in their gentle pumping and stretching. 

He’s making time, she realizes, pushing their limit just a bit further by making sure she’s prepared, making sure she’s wet enough for what they’re about to do. A mistake to be sure. She’ll have to sneak into the medbay, find some pills to prevent this from developing further than it should, down them in the few minutes she has. 

But it will be worth it. It’s their last chance to … not love, no, that’s not what this is. One more chance to connect, perhaps. One more chance to touch and be touched. 

A low moan escapes her lips as he focuses his attention on her clit again, his pace harder and faster now as his lips seek out her pulse point. One of her hands tangles in those famous dark curls, the other tightens on his shoulder as she feels his teeth drag against the hollow of her clavicle. She’s close. Closer than she thought she would be, closer than she usually is with another’s touch – she knows herself better than anyone else. Maybe there’s something to this captain, or maybe it’s the impending threat that’s getting her hot. 

Either way, she’s grateful. It makes time for other things, if she’s more ready than she thought she was. 

Her orgasm is swifter than lightspeed, making her mouth go slack and a soft moan leave her lips. Her fingers clench, her legs tightening around his waist as her back arches, head tipping back against the wall. 

She doesn’t notice his fingers leaving her, doesn’t notice his hand leaving her ass. She only notices when she opens her eyes, and sees his fingers in his mouth, his eyes dark even in the dim orange light, his gaze absolutely sinful as he sucks her release from his skin. 

She’s holding herself up now, but she doesn’t mind, not when he looks so damn good slipping his fingers from between his lips, wiping them on the leg of his pants before he’s cupping her face and oh … oh, that’s more intimate than she thought this would be. 

By the looks of his face, it’s more than he thought it would be, too, his dark eyes wide before he brushes his thumbs across her sharp cheekbones, his left sliding down to press against her lip, testing, feeling. Memorizing. 

She’s the one who initiates the kiss, this time. She’s the one who leans in and takes his lips, claims his mouth as her own for the few minutes they have. He lets her down, her still-booted feet touching the floor. He has to pull away to step out of his own boots and his dark pants, but it gives her the chance to shed everything else, underwear tossed with her dress and her breast band. She’ll find her headpiece later, somewhere in their discarded chaos.

She’s only just finished setting her boot down when there are hands upon her waist, pulling her against a hot, firm body. She’s taller than him, she has to look down at him, but she doesn’t care. She likes him looking up at her. 

She wonders if they have time for that, for him to look up at her as he worships her with his tongue instead of his fingers. She has the feeling he’d be more than willing to indulge her. 

_If we live,_ she thinks. _If we live through this._

The bed isn’t too far away, and she’s thinking, thinking of how they’re going to do this. She likes to top, likes the power, likes the control she has, likes-

… likes Dameron on top of her, apparently, his body caging her in as she’s pressed against the mattress, the standard sheets not the softest she’s ever been pressed against but they’ll do. It’s colder, here, the bed closer to the window that faces the stars, but the light of them allows for her to see him more clearly. She can see the ring now, around his neck, the metal hanging from a chain. She wants to ask, wants to know the story, but there’s not enough, there’s never enough…

She can feel his cock against her inner thigh, and wonders what it looks like. Wonders about the dark hair leading to it, wonders if it curves, how he takes it in his hand. But she keeps his gaze on his face instead, closing her eyes as he leans in to kiss her. 

It shouldn’t be this intimate. It shouldn’t be this tender, not when they were yelling at each other such a short while ago, but it wouldn’t do to die with savage bite marks and scratches from nails, now would it? 

Even if she almost wants it, wants a reminder of what happened, wants something to ache as she stares death in the face – if it comes to that.

He’s good. He’s damn good. He presses against her, the ring on the chain knocking against her collarbone before he’s pressing even closer, the metal resting on her chest instead. She feels the stretch, the press of him against her, the pressure that reassures her that this is real, this is happening, they are doing this against better judgment and logic and common sense. 

She exhales as he slips inside of her, feels his lips against her jaw, closes her eyes as his lips travel down her neck. She expects the open-mouthed, heated kisses she received before, but gasps as there’s a sudden touch of teeth. 

Maybe she will have marks to bear. 

Maybe, just maybe, they will have a chance to make more. Maybe he will get the chance to know how long they last. 

He’s thick. Not as long as some of the other captains and pilots and commanders she’s had before, no, but he’s pleasantly thick, filling her and stretching her, a constant reminder that yes, they are doing this, yes, he is inside of her. She loves it, her nails digging into the skin of his shoulder, his moan low and guttural against her throat. 

His voice. Maker, she loves his voice, loves the timber of it, loves the slight roughness, loves the way he asks if he can move, so tender but husky. She responds with a sharp, short not, the action softened by the gentle kiss she presses to his stubbled jaw. Yes. Yes, he can move. 

And oh, Maker, move he does. 

His hand finds her thigh, guiding it up and over his waist, allowing him to sink deeper inside of her. The poor captain will bear the marks of her nails, of that she is sure, and she will bear the marks of his lips and teeth. Her bracelets clink as he thrusts hard, a low moan slipping from her as he presses against her. There is muscle, hard and hot; there is coarse, dark hair against her bare skin, and she loves every bit of it. 

It doesn’t last as long as she would like. They don’t have enough time to indulge, but he does make her release a second time, his thumb pressed to her clit again. He lacks rhythm, but she wonders if the situation is to blame, and not his skill in bed. He’s generous with his kisses, her throat and chest and face covered in them, the warmth lingering. 

He comes on the sheets. It doesn’t matter, anyway, she thinks. They’re going to lose the cruiser. He doesn’t seem to care. The sounds he makes while releasing are gorgeous, and his handsome face twists beautifully. She’s grateful they moved to the bed so that she could see it in the light of the stars instead of the awful light of the emergency bulb. 

There’s no time for after, she thinks, already moving to get up. There’s no time for pillowtalk or whatever it would be, no time for-

“Where do you think you’re going?”

A calloused hand on her wrist, pulling her back. She wants to pull away, wants to insist they both have duties to perform, they have stations to get back to.  
But his lips on hers make her stop, his hand on her waist warm and kind, pulling her against him. 

There’s never enough time. 

But, she supposes, as her hand sinks back into his dark curls, she’ll indulge in the little of it she has.


End file.
